


[S] Duet.

by snoozy_boi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, John uses the fuck word, Platonic John-rose because I said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25564462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoozy_boi/pseuds/snoozy_boi
Summary: John and Rose finally talk.
Relationships: John Egbert/Rose Lalonde, Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	[S] Duet.

It all began with a crack. All of your dreams nowadays seemed to follow this formula. Usually, you would be seeing the end of paradox space as you know it, ghosts of figures of the strange and curious clawing and grasping at the rips and tears of the world you’ve inhabited for God knows far too long. This one was not like your usual dreams, however. Dreams of this orientation have been coming and going in a much more intense fashion. The rips and tears you feel have been less of your mind and less of paradox space and the sheer headaches you’ve been suffering, but the heart instead. Ghastly versions of your friends seem to break down and destroy themselves in a most horrid fashion—just describing it alone makes you break out in a cold sweat. Last night, you spent what felt like hours clutching your heart and blindly staring out at the starry night. The blur of your vision did not help you feel any safer in the dark, and your usually vast room seemed to always grow smaller and smaller around you. This time, when you gasped for breath, it seemed none would come into your lungs. Your heart only seemed to tremble harder and harder, and you had to imagine the feather. Always with the goddamn feather. It rises and falls with your breath—the orange thing so carefully pushed around by the wind made with your exhales and inhales. You did this for, once again, what seemed like hours, but it was always just a few minutes. Five minutes this time, a new record.

You had enough of this. The only person with a snippet of an idea you were going through with this was Dave, since you remember a passing conversation with him involving him getting very quiet and serious, while you jokingly reassured him you weren’t having panic attacks, you surely couldn’t be panicking. The world wasn’t unfolding before you any more, and the visions were just those—visions, mind-fucking that would make Vriska jealous. Regardless, you would always remind yourself to think of the orange feather, always the orange feather, and you would feel a little bit more serene a little bit faster. Unfortunately, it’s been taking much longer this time, and you’ve had it.  
  
John: Have a discussion with your therapist.  
  
==>  
  
Your therapist was just about as certified as a therapist as you were to be a father—sure, seeing one in front of you allowed for you to pick up some knowledge, but a deep fascination was much farther away from genuine experience than you would prefer to idealize, grasp, or come to terms with...no, that wasn’t the right analogy. You don’t think she would prefer those exact words when it came to analogies, but the general idea seemed to be grasped. There was a tangible difference, and getting what was the best would be having to compromise with less-than-ideal sometimes.

And that included coming to terms with your dreams.

==>  
  


Rose: John. How nice to see you.

  


John: Hey, Rose. Sorry that I haven’t made it to come see you yet, I just needed--

  


Rose: That’s fine. Just put the flowers down into the vase.

  
  
That’s strange. You’ve never been cut off by Rose, not once. She seemed fine when you finally texted her you were coming over to see her and see how she was doing...albeit, a week ago. Maybe she was irritated at you because you took so long to come over and see her? You had no time to worry about that, not at the moment. You were more worried about somehow finding some way to comfort her.  
  


John: So, Rose, how have the headaches been? Have they been getting better? Worse?

  
  
She clenches her teeth, her already pale skin blanching over until you’re sure she’s as white as the sun. Her palm rotates against her temple, and she lets out a sigh. A sigh of pain, but you’re not sure if she’s sighing at you, or sighing at the head pain.  
  


Rose: John, as much as I appreciate your concern about me and my horrid head pains, I’d much rather not try and focus on them too much right now. It’s the least of my concern. I assume you came here for more than just giving me a bunch of roses. Bonus points for symbolism.

  
  


John: What do you mean?

  
  
Did she see through you? Maybe she saw this coming a long while ago, or maybe she’s using her Sylph powers or whatever to see alternative paths, or whatever the hell her powers did. You never cared too much for trying to memorize or analyze how the powers worked—you understood your god-tier abilities to be simply things to utilize, rather than to spend hours upon days scrutinizing and trying to decipher. Calliope and Rose seemed the most interested in doing that. You just do what you have to do.  
  


Rose: You know, I’ve spent a long time thinking. Not just here, in this bed, but also in general. It would be a dream to just be capable of nothing. Be the queen of a space as confined as a walnut shell.

  


John: For someone so inclined to not think, you sure seem to have made one hell of a connection to Hamlet.

  
  


Rose: I see someone’s been doing their reading—we’ve got nothing but time here on Earth C, I’m glad to see you’re spending it reading.

  
  
There was something distant about the way she said that. Did you imagine her smirking? Was she seeing through your whole act?  
  


John: Well, it would have been nice to just sit on my ass all day and--

  
  


Rose: John.

  
  


John: What?

  
  
You ask, seeing the vase very quickly steady itself, like it’s been pushed by something. It hasn’t been touched by you, or Rose. Rose’s hands have been resting on her bedsheets, and yours have been stuffed in your pockets.  
  


Rose: Nothing. There’s just something interesting about your name. About all of our names, really.

  
  


John: Oooookaaay…? Well, I’ve been thinking about something recently. Well, not thinking but living out...well, not living out, but dreaming...fuck, it’s so hard to explain.

  
  
You take off your glasses, instinctively handing them to Rose, who so kindly places them on the nightstand, folded right next to the vase.  
  


Rose: Well, we do have all day. All of the foreseeable future, really. What’s on your mind?

  
  
You stutter, words forming, but only chokes coming out. You want to spill everything, and it seems like the look on her face tells you that she has a clue as to what’s been going down already. Has Dave been saying things to her? Have you said something or led her to think something and she’s just waiting for you to say it? It frustrates you to see that smirk come up on her face. It’s not like she’s even hiding it any more.  
  


John: I…

  
  


Rose: Yes, that is in fact a word used to describe one’s self. Ego was a more classical term for it, but I guess in the thick of generational passing-down of the English tongue, man looked for easier ways to describe one’s self.

  
  


John: ...Are you just fucking with me?

  
  
You feel the blood boil under your skin. The vase seems to spin in protest, making a cacophony of noise, and you’re just about ready to throw a fit. A fit you haven’t had in about a decade, now. The last time you remember getting genuinely frustrated was back on the meteor, all those years ago.  
  


John: You know what? Fuck it. I’m sick of this, enjoy the fucking flowers, Rose.

  
  
You know the words don’t truly hold any weight, and you’re even more sure she won’t really be taking them to heart. As you begin walking to the door, you hear the vase tumble onto the ground, spilling water onto the carpet.  
  


Rose: Oh, John.

  
  
You take a deep breath through your nose, and turn back to her, wanting to keep yourself steady. Maybe she had an apology or something, anything transformative.  
  
She points to the glasses on the nightstand.  
  


Rose: If you’re going to stomp yourself out, at least do it with your glasses on.

  
  
She didn’t smirk this time. She seemed...angry? Frustrated?  
  


John: Oh, now you’re worried? _Now_ you have this grand desire to care about me? I tried being serious with you, but you seem like you can’t be bothered! _Now_ you seem bothered to care about my glasses what about me, Rose? Who are you gonna psychoanalyze now?

  
  
You storm back, quickly reaching for your glasses. She grabs your wrist just as your index finger and thumb make it to the wire frames.  
  


Rose: Sit down.

  
  
You sit. After a few moments of dead silence, where you wrestle with yourself mentally, screaming to simply storm out and never talk to her again, you sit.  
  


Rose: Why did you come here, John?

  
  


John: ...to see you.

  
  
It was a half-truth.  
  


Rose: Funny. And I thought I was the one who needed assistance walking.

  
  


John: The hell is that supposed to mean!?

  
  
You begin to rise, but a stern look on her face and a pointer finger pointing downwards seats your ass back into the chair.  
  


Rose: Do you remember why I said I hated the ending to summer camp movies?

  
  
John was taken aback by this. He entertained her odd demand for him to answer, however.  
  


John: Because...they’re a shitty means at grabbing emotions, layered in horrible scripting and even worse acting by teenagers played by adults in their mid-twenties?

  
  
She appreciates your answer, as it is, verbatim, what she always said about them. She lets out a quick exhale through her nostrils, a smile cracking her stoic face for just a moment.  
  


Rose: Precisely. However, there’s another  reason why I hate them. The necessity for finality where there is no need.

  
  


John: ...what?

  
  
She leans back, putting a hand over her mouth as she yawned. You never got a chance to look into her pink eyes for this long, but you’re sure you would have recognized long ago she looked this tired.  
  


Rose: Why spend an entire week, or month in movie canon learning something that has been reinforced since the jump? Every one of them ends with the ideal lesson—the memories made along the way are more important than the end goal. It’s a very poor execution of what Campbell idealized, but it still, unfortunately, works. It’s also how well they reflect to us. We’ve been through hell and back, and you can’t, or, in this case, couldn’t, tell me earnestly if you’re having problems? With anything?

  
  
She looked over at you with concern in her eyes.  
  


John: Well...not really. I’ve been so fixated on trying not to _get killed_ , that feelings have been something I...really haven’t needed to keep going for myself. You guys are more important to me than that, anyway.

  
  


Rose: You needn’t speak as if everyone who won the session is present. And you know this. It’s why I think you walk around with an unnecessary crutch. You see others in yourself, or rather, your self in others, and rather than fix the self directly, you’d much prefer to put it off . And you know this, better than I could have known through seeing the timelines, or guessed with my knowledge of how the mind operates.

  
  
She looked away from you. Was she just looking at the plants, or just not looking you in the eyes?  
  


Rose: I think you’re selfish. I think you’re afraid to give wholly, because it’s been easy to worry about the game. The game’s over, John. You have no more reason to dance around important issues. I mean, sure, I’m no licensed therapist; even if I were to attempt to pursue a degree, it’d arguably be a waste of time. I would make up an entire school, teach the teachers, but I would be capable of passing every test because I knew the answers, all for a carapace to write my name in curlicue cursive, stamp a wax seal on it, and hang it. Even with all of that, I have someone I can trust in. Do you have anyone you trust in? Even yourself?

  
  
You were dumbfounded, even long before the extended train of thought. She was right about all of those things, and they made you feel numb. You wanted to shrink away, until you were needed once again. Until you had something you had to do physically, rather than lay unto your friend your deepest anxieties about yourself and how worthwhile you are to have around.  
  


John: I’m...I’m gonna go. See you, Rose.

  
  
You say, quietly, almost as if you’re saying it to yourself. You’re probably just going to go back to your room and do nothing more, lazing around until something happens. But nothing ever happens. No legendary enemy coming to kill everyone, no need to retcon and defeat the villains of yesteryear. Just you, your dead friends, and your orange feather. You grab your glasses, and get up once again. She doesn’t even acknowledge you’re rising, even though you know you made enough noise to notify her you’re rising. Even then, she should be able to feel the energy sink right next to her, as someone begins to move away from a sustained position.  
  


Rose: John. I want a hug.

  
  
You turn back, a confused look on your face.  
  


John: You want a hug, or one of _my_ hugs?

  
  


Rose: You’ve made a jealous woman of me, Egbert. I wish to know why your embraces are so coveted by Karkat and Dave.

  
  
You shrug.  
  


John: Alright.

  
  
You walk over to her, taking off your glasses once again and putting them, once again, on the nightstand. You wrap your arms under her shoulders and around her back, and hold her with some sparing pressure. You know she’s not feeling all too well from the headaches, so you ensure her relative comfort by not squeezing. She squeezes you  anyways , and you decide to return the challenge with a more confidently-sized hug.  
  


Rose: John. When was the last time you’ve been held?

  
  
You begin to answer, but nothing comes out, once again. You just stand there, kneeling over her, frozen in place, as you feel her skinny, long fingers rub against your back. Slowly, but surely, you sit down, and she leans over to keep the embrace going in turn. After what seems like hours, you squeeze her to non-verbally let her know you’re satisfied, and you check your phone to see what time it is.  
  
From what you can tell, the hug only lasted about five minutes.  
  
==>  
  
You sat in that chair, feeling numb for a while. Ten minutes pass, then twenty, then Kanaya comes home with a bag of groceries. She waves at you and Rose, and you give a pitiful wave of your hand. 

  
  
At some point, when the birds stopped chirping outside, and the sun began to glow right in your face, you used the notion of covering your eyes to lay your head down onto Rose’s bed, right next to her leg. She didn’t move or contest the action.  
  
You fall asleep.  
  
John: Be Rose.  
  
You gently open your crusty eyelids, looking left and right to see what has transpired since you dozed off. You found the windy lad’s actions riveting, but relieving nonetheless. You highly doubted getting a second chance at taking a crack at his psyche, and though there were many timelines where you and his encounter went wrong, it seemed like this one was an option. Not the best option, not the worst, but just one. Really, it began to grow harder and harder for you to see what would be the best route to take. It seemed that John had stopped caring a long time ago, so why did it confound you so much? Why did you rack your brain so much?  
  
You stop all thoughts when you feel something press against your leg. It’s John’s head, gently bumping into you in a strangely rhythmic pace. His back seized up and deflated over and over again, and you realized he was crying. You guessed he had these feelings inside for quite some time already, but only now was he really capable of at least speaking out to the universe his woes. Sure, it wouldn’t mean a world of change after just one heavy, teary, bleary-eyed session, but it also meant it wouldn’t make him regress into being distant. Hopefully.  
  
You put your hand onto the back of his head, gently rubbing your thumb back and forth. You weren’t one for affection, save for with Kanaya, nor did you know if John would have even appreciated this small level of attention at the moment. However, at the same time, he wasn’t objecting to this action, consciously or unconsciously, so you continued. It wasn’t necessarily the best or worst thing to do, and just letting him cry without any sort of acknowledgment would have probably led to the same conclusion. But   
  
  
  
  
how would it have made you feel? It may or may not have mattered to him or you, but would it have led to the same level of satisfaction that acting on intuition like now would have brought?  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Kanaya: There

  
  
You watch your wife toss a blanket—one that you knitted, actually—onto his back, as she watched with a distant curiosity.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Kanaya: He Seems Like One Of Your More

  
  


Kanaya: Interesting Companions

  
  


Rose: That’s definitely a word to describe it.

  
You squinted your eyes, looking up to try and snatch words from your head to describe all the feelings, thoughts, and ideas running around in your mind. A surprising notion, actually, since for the last few days, it has been agonizing just to breathe at a steady pace.  
  
  
  


Kanaya: Well

  
  


Kanaya: However You’d Describe It

  
  


Kanaya: In Fact

  
  


Kanaya: Now That I Think About It

  
  


Kanaya: Youd Be Really The Only One With Enough Effectiveness To “Describe It”

  
  


Kanaya: Anyway

  
  


Kanaya: Describe To Him The Best Possible Way Of His Inherent Limited Attendance At Casa Lalonde-Maryam, Effectively To Daytime Hours

  
  


Kanaya: I Use The Term “Casa” Rather Ironically However

  
  


Kanaya: We Barely Have Enough Room For Us Here In This Apartment

  
  


Kanaya: Not When We’re Already Looking Into Having A Third Permanent Resident

  
  
Kanaya leans forward and gently presses her lips against yours for a moment, before climbing into her twin-sized bed, which was separated from yours by a nightstand. This Odd Couple feel was ironically quite beneficial, since Kanaya’s occasional habit of silently typing away at her fashion blog on her laptop always failed to keep you awake. The quiet taps of the membrane keyboard mixed with just barely enough light to make you sleep with a mask were both things you could live with, and have been living with all this time. She doesn’t pull out her laptop, so you sleep sitting up, like you have been doing for the last few nights.  
  
Rose: Be John.  
  
You left out of the apartment complex a few hours before Rose awoke, and after Kanaya had already left out on what you understood to be adoption. Trolls were weird, but so were humans, and though there was a calling to make a shitty reference to summer camp endings and claim trolls and humans weren’t very far off in reality, both trolls and humans would be offended at this blanket statement. Sure, you’d mean it in jest, but you began to tell that intensity was rising between both races, so you decided to leave comedy to practical jokes and pranks.  
  
You had no reasons to make jokes right now, however, and the four objects you were carrying were accompanied by a serious face. Rose was already awake, munching on a blueberry muffin, while you walked in, and handed Rose a violin by the neck, much to her chagrin, and a bow for the violin. She had been given sheet music by you as well, and you began to set up a keyboard. You turned the chair to face away from her, so you had enough room to actually play the damn thing. She didn’t ask how you got the violin, and you didn’t feel like explaining. She asked a few questions about the music, at least, where and when to start and stop, but nothing else.  
John and Rose: Play a haunting duet.  
  
You two fuck up, many times over, but find each fuck-up funnier and more silly than the last. Your puffy eyes are glowing with joy by the end, and it’s enough to make you feel confident in what you were going to ask her.  
  


Rose: Hahaha! How long has it been since you even played a piano, John? Eleven years?

  
  


John: Well, at least I know how to play a C on my instrument of choice!

  
  


Rose: Well, to be fair, you did put masking tape on each of the keys to remind yourself what note each one was.

  
  
You blush, and ignore her further laughter.  
  


John: Well, anyway, I wanted to ask you something—what if we were, like, moirails or some shit??

  
  
She gets ready to laugh, but she sees the downtrodden look on your face. You can’t meet her eyes, but you’re absolutely sure she’s looking at you.  
  


Rose: John...

  
  
She starts, sounding more like a doting mother than you feel confident in reminding her of.  
  


Rose: I don’t think you...okay. What do you think a moirail’s job is supposed to be?

  
  


John: Well, I dunno. I guess it was like a...super friend or something.

  
  
She sighs, and clears her throat.  
  


Rose: John, the complexities of troll quadrants are more complicated than I’m sure you’d wish to be told, and even more complicated than you’d wish to attempt to understand. I’ve garnered all intimacy that I find necessary from Kanaya, though she would technically refer to it as being my matesprit, but then again, that doesn’t matter. All I’m saying is that you’re complicating things, John. Canon is complicated. We don’t have to be.  
  
  
  


John: ...right. Well, then best friends?

  
  
She smiles at you, letting out a two-toned giggle.  
  


Rose: Right. Best friends.

  
  
You sit in silence for a minute.  
  
You take a deep breath in, and out. You see the orange feather.  
  


John: Well, it all started about a month ago. I’ve been having dreams.


End file.
